


Faith in Faith

by cabbagedad



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bisexuality, Blind Ignis Scientia, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, but subdued and further in, nonbinary OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-08-22 01:58:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16588580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabbagedad/pseuds/cabbagedad
Summary: On a deserted lakeside, a jaded ex-Hunter meets a gentlemanly fisherman who isn’t very good at fishing. From there, luck and a dash of courage keep their paths intertwined, until neither is sure what the other means to them anymore. But with the darkness stretching from weeks to months to years, can the ex-Hunter overcome their past? Can Ignis finally bring himself to share the terrible burden he carries? And then, maybe, somewhere along the way, inspire each other to live…?Set during the 10 years of darkness.





	1. Well-met by Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the shores of the Vesperpool, an injured ex-Hunter tries to jump a mysterious fisherman who turns out to be far more skilled than he appears – just not at fishing.

“Good evening.”

 

Light yet carrying, the man speaks as if greeting a shopkeep in the Lestallum marketplace – rather than, say, a stranger sneaking up on him at a deserted lakeside. I sigh, giving up the chase.

 

“Is it?”

 

He doesn’t turn around. Confidence of the highly skilled. “Well, ‘good night’ implies one of us will be retiring soon. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

 

He isn’t, of course. Though neither term can quite encompass this long, long darkness. Here however, so close to a Haven, the cries of daemons fade into the background. The Vesperpool, too, is still, but for slight ripples as the man recasts his line.

 

I wander over and perch on a boulder. His glasses glint in the moonlight.

 

“You’re a Hunter?”

 

“No!” I snap, stung. Immediately, regret burns my cheeks; he couldn’t have known.

 

“My apologies. I noticed you carry their tags.”

 

This man. How keen is his hearing? I brush my fingertips over my sternum where they sleep, warm under leather and cotton.

 

“They’re not mine,” I grumble. “And isn’t it polite to introduce yourself first?”

 

“Common courtesy only extends so far for suspicious characters in the dark,” he says, eyebrow raised at my outburst. “But, since you asked, my name is Ignis. Yourself?”

 

_ Ignis? _ Pushing my overgrown fringe out of my eyes, I lean in for a closer look. His profile  _ is  _ familiar, though the hairstyle and glasses are not, and he is far more relaxed than I ever remember him. To be fair, the duties of a Crown retainer and school prefect left scarce time for leisure activities, especially  _ fishing _ , of all things. But there was no mistake – I had come dangerously close to mugging the royal advisor.

 

A royal advisor who is still waiting for my answer. “Zia,” I say hurriedly.

 

“A pleasure, Zia.”

 

He turns to me with a gracious smile. The image of a perfect gentleman, were it not for the wraparound tinted glasses and fishing gear. Evidently, he’s decided I pose no threat he can’t neutralise. He’s right – I’ve seen the skills of the Crownsguard firsthand – but his confidence, and his courtesy, irk me. 

 

“What brings you out here, if I may ask?”

 

“Hunting,” I shrug. A half-truth, even if my original mark is already several days dead. Ignis waits for elaboration, and when it does not come, the slightest grin curls his lips. Under the visor, his one visible eye doesn’t quite meet mine. Propped against the dock supports is a sleek black cane. There had been rumours – and the visor cannot hide all his scars. Still, I can’t help my curiosity.

 

“And what’s a member of the Crownsguard doing here, alone on a daemon-infested lakeside?”

 

Ignis frowns. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m fishing.”

 

I look at the empty bucket at his feet. “You’re not very good at it.”

 

“True,” he sighs. “It’s a fairly new hobby.”

 

“Then why bother?” I cup my chin, jiggling an ankle.

 

“Probably for the same reasons you carry those tags.”

 

_ What?  _ I freeze, but curiosity wins out over wariness. Against the ghostly green of the lake, his shoulders remain squared, tall. Yet, beneath his amicable words lies a boundless sea of emotion I dare not touch. Subconsciously, I tug at the chain around my neck, running the pad of my forefinger over its links.

 

“I see.”

 

It’s hard to turn away but I do. I’m not one to intrude on the grief of strangers. But when I hop down, the impact jars my shoulder and I wince. That’s right.

 

“Hey. Got bandages?”

 

“Yes,” he jolts. “You’re hurt?”

 

“Just a scratch,” I shake my head before I realise the futility of the gesture. He stows his rod and rummages in a small pack.

 

“Take care it doesn’t fester.” He tosses me a small healing kit. I grimace – of course the tactician keeps his kit close. “Do you need a hand?”

 

I hesitate. With my initial plans – to scout and/or hit-and-run – in shambles, this encounter is already dragging on longer than I thought. Yet the longer I pause, the less I mind. Moreover, the torment of attempting to bandage one-handed overrides my pride. 

 

“If...you’re offering.”

 

“I am,” he says firmly. “Can you make it to the Haven? I fear we’re too exposed here.”

 

I open my mouth to remind him I am healthy enough to attempt a mugging – but he doesn’t need to know that last part. “Sounds good to me.”

 

We pick our way uphill. Jagged shadows leap and twirl, twinned by our flashlights. It seems Ignis wears one out of habit. He takes the lead, hampered neither by darkness nor his gear. His cane hangs unused at his side; he must know this area well. As we crest the hill, faint blue markings peek through the branches, promising sanctuary. Again, I thank my past self for their foresight. If I had known the stranger would offer his help so freely, however, the thought of pillaging his camp would never have crossed my mind.  _ I guess I’ve become a bad person _ . An old fatigue settles into my bones. Come to think of it, when was the last time I slept...?

 

In my daze, I hardly notice when dirt transitions to stone under my boots. With a look of concern, Ignis steers me into a faded yellow chair. I grunt in appreciation and undo my vest and shirt, fumbling with the clasps. When the breeze hits, I shiver.

 

“Show me where,” Ignis says, patient. I guide his outstretched hand to the outlines of my injury, jaw clenched preemptively, but his touch is so light I barely feel it. His fingers skip over the bandages, mapping out the area.

 

“A gash across the muscle, deep but not wide. About three days old. Treant got in a lucky hit.”

 

Ignis quirks an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

 

Exhausted and unable to discern whether he’s praising my combat ability or my stitching skills (or the Treant itself), I accept his compliment in silence. Gauze falls away under his dagger, precise and efficient. Dog tags clink against his forearm, but he doesn’t ask further, for which I’m thankful.

 

I glance down. The edges of the wound are ragged and oozing. I groan. “I think it’s infected.”

 

“Yes,” Ignis mutters, though how he can tell I have no idea. The smell, perhaps? He hums in thought, lips pursed. “Ah! I have just the thing.”

 

He produces an small pot from his kit and a clean pair of latex gloves. Slipping his leather ones off, he unscrews the lid with deft fingers. A herbal fragrance fills the air, refreshing yet bitter. Some kind of salve. He scoops up a dollop with his finger.

 

“Oh I can do that,” I protest, flushing. As touch-starved as I am, the idea of a stranger’s hands on me, however well-intentioned, is mortifying.

 

“Please, allow me.” His reassuring smile leaves little room for protest. Despite his politeness, he can be surprisingly pushy. Against my better judgement, I let him spread the salve over my shoulder. It’s cold, but not painful. If this is my punishment for thinking larcenous thoughts, then maybe it’s not so ba- _ SHIT that burns. _

 

In response to my squirming, Ignis pauses in his work. I bite my lip and force my body to be still. This seems to satisfy him, though I don’t miss the tiny twitch of his lips as he smears more of that unholy concoction on my wound. Soon, the pain subsides, replaced by tingling, then a pleasant coolness. Under his care, my muscles relax for the first time in days. My eyelids droop...only to snap open when something warm touches my brow.

 

“Apologies for startling you,” he says, pulling his palm away. “Looks like there’s no fever, but one can never be too careful.”

 

He places a patch of soft gauze over my shoulder. I tense automatically, but the salve has numbed the area. His hands are deft and experienced, maintaining a detachment that is both clinical and respectful.

 

“I would advise recuperating for a few days,” he says mildly. “You obviously need rest, though it’s better late than never.”

 

“I uh, didn’t think it was so urgent...?”

 

“Health is always urgent,” he chides. Unused to being so unabashedly mothered, I retreat into sheepish silence. He produces a small green bottle and a roll of fresh bandages from his kit, setting the former on the ground at my feet along with the salve.

 

“Once the infection is gone, this potion should heal up the rest.” He winds the bandages around my chest and arm. “And take the salve; I daresay it might come in useful, with the life you lead.”

 

This stranger is full of surprises. Wondering whether my ignoble intentions disqualify me from accepting his kindness, I falter, but he pushes on with a smile. “Consider it a gift, from one traveller to another.”

 

“I...thank you.”

 

“Glad you didn’t try to mug me after all?” he smirks, clipping the end in place. His tone is teasing and without malice. A laugh bubbles up in my belly – I really was worrying for nothing.  _ Guess I’ll take what I’m given. _

“That obvious, huh?” I shoot back with a shameless grin. “Not like I’d stand a chance against Crownsguard.”

 

“From what I could tell, you are quick and agile,” he murmurs. I start – at both his low voice and unexpected praise – but he is engrossed in his task, fingertips skimming skin to make sure he’s gotten the placement just right.

 

“Simply a little unlucky,” he finishes and leans back. I examine his work. Meticulous, and definitely better than my last attempt. Satisfied, I stand, shrugging on my shirt and vest.

 

“That’s what counts, isn’t it? But...thanks. Looks like I lucked out after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a self-indulgent writing exercise that tumoured into a multi-chapter fic. first fic i've written/posted.  
> (mild disclaimer: personally I prefer Jpn!Ignis so I toned down his speaking habits a little while hopefully keeping some of that well-mannered/refined air, though i know some fans like it - each to their own)


	2. A Scav's Life for Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a raid on the famous Pearl, our ex-Hunter finds something more than wine and whisky – plus some refreshing company.

Here and there, flashes of colour dot the hillside. Grenades, cryonades, and galvanades. A festive combination. Down below, the restaurant is anything but. A squat black block on the Cygillan Ocean, its solitary boardwalk miraculously still intact. The once-glittering bay is broiling, webbed white with foam, crashing and lashing at the sands. Above the sloping bungalow rooftops, palm fronds whip to and fro, dark and jagged against the murky sky.

 

I bring my bike to a sputtering stop in the empty lot, keeping an eye on the fuel gauge. Still two-thirds left. I peel my driving goggles off, trying (and failing) to rub the indents away, along with my fatigue. _Focus_. Popping open the topbox, I fetch an empty bag and sling it on, keeping my daggers and sword free. After a moment’s consideration, I tuck a flare gun in my belt. Not many cartridges left, but enough for an emergency.

 

A low rumble. I freeze, but it’s just the wind. With a final backward glance at my partner in crime, I stow my keys, stifling their jangling, and slink across the tarmac. The yellow glint of a flan’s gaze passes over me but it oozes away along the sand, oblivious. I exhale. Many more daemons guard tonight’s objective – it would be wise to avoid picking an early fight.

 

The white expanse of the beach is broken by some more rogue flans, though fewer than one might expect. They give the tackle store a wide berth. I squint but the pier is deserted, and in this darkness, the shed is just as opaque as the Pearl. Hopefully this won’t mean competition – the last scavenger I fought off was more than happy to leave me at the mercy of the daemons...not to mention the sheer Taelpar cliffs.

 

Two iron giants patrol the stairs to the boardwalk. I skirt past them, behind the souvenir booth, pulling myself up by the railings. The giants rumble and creak, but continue their midnight vigil. I creep along, past the dead bulbs and trash lining the walkway.

 

The Hunters seldom venture here. The Quay has negligible tactical importance, and the restaurant’s mood lighting did little to protect its inhabitants in the initial outbreaks. Now, it serves only daemons and the occasional scavenger. Most are dissuaded by the Giants and the lone path of retreat. The rest blanche and run when they realise the remaining lights in the restaurant are not lamps but the pale flames of half a dozen lichs.

 

Still, I’m here to pay a debt, and my prize can’t be found anywhere else. Doman Black: the house special, back when Galdin was a gleaming luxury resort, not a post-apocalyptic daemon hang-out. Plus any other liquid loot I can get my paws on, of course. Hunters are fierce drink fiends, but with their work, who can blame them?

 

A green trail catches my eye. Hobgoblins. About ten or so, one swiping at a stray chip bag as it blows past. I unsheathe my daggers and inhale. No sneaking past this lot.

 

* * *

 

At first, Ignis had taken the distant thuds and clanking sounds to be some new agitation of the giants’. He remained where he was, leaning against the shed. But now, with the shrieks of goblins piercing the air, there could be no mistake. Someone is raiding the restaurant.

 

He frowns. Who would be foolish enough to try? The place hasn’t much in the way of supplies, but its residents were nothing to scoff at. The mere presence of the lichs, not to mention the naga, have caused many a Hunter to regard it with wariness.

 

Strangely, Ignis didn’t hear anyone entering from this side, which meant…

 

His heart flutters. No, it is too soon. It has barely been a year, and he knows Noct needs longer –  though how long, he isn’t sure. No, it’s more likely he missed a quiet scavenger or two, lost in thought as he always was, here on Galdin’s sands. A familiar voice flashes into his mind: the injured wanderer wearing a Hunter’s tags like a mourning veil. Perhaps…

 

Regardless of who it is, they could use a hand. Ignis sets off towards the restaurant.

 

* * *

 

_Motherfu-_

 

Knocking away the knife, I strike the tonberry across its chest. The creature crumples, skidding back a few metres. Glancing down, I grimace. A deep puncture in the back of my thigh, just missing the bone. _I swear I just mended these pants_.

 

I limp to the counter to catch my breath. Defeating that naga left me careless. A lich’s errant attack distracted it long enough for me to sink a dagger into its forehead. Then, it only took a well-timed quick-draw to separate head from body. The lichs too fell easily – so much so, that I didn’t look down until I felt a knife in my leg.

 

Before I can tend to it however, garchimaceras barrel in from a side room. Evading one’s claws, I use the katana’s extra range to lop its forearm off. Its gold cuff clatters to the floor. With a quick twist, I dodge another’s swipe and, when it tumbles past me, shred its back. Shrieks join the howling of the wind. My leg aches but fresh adrenaline keeps the worst at bay. Quick though they are, they rely too much on strength in numbers to stand a chance. I cut through them, sustaining only superficial injuries. A lone daemon skitters backwards into the suite but I dash after it, flicking the ichor of its fellows from my blade. A single slash is all it takes. Now, the south wing’s former occupants lie dissolving into purple particles, with a low hiss that sets my teeth on edge. Awful sound for an awful fate.

 

With some difficulty I refocus my attention on my surroundings. Not much here. Pillows and blankets are strewn across the floor, which has begun to crack and rot in places. Unsurprising; the whole place is essentially one giant pier. I wrinkle my nose at the stench. The striped sheets are dusty, though intact. Not for long – I tear a few into bundles, packing them into the bottom of my bag. No point coming all this way only for my prize to smash and leak all over a beam.

 

The movement strains my wounded thigh. I splash a few drops of potion on it hurriedly, wanting to secure my objective before the daemons return. With a soft hiss, my skin scars within moments. Satisfied, I stuff the bottle back in my pocket. At this rate, the healing supplies I picked up should last a good while. I press against my makeshift shock-proofing experimentally. Messy, but passable.

 

 _Crack_ . I freeze. Footsteps, and possibly a broken plate. _Great_. I’m sure I cleared all the daemons, so these must be human. And with all the ripping noises, they must know I’m here too. Most Hunters could be counted on to be friendly, or at least non-antagonistic, but everyone else is fair game. And this stranger in particular is moving too quietly to be the former.

 

Heart pounding, I slink over by the ruined door frame, pressing myself flush to the wall. The moment a head appears, I whip my dagger to their throat – then drop it in shock.

 

“You!”

 

Ignis thumbs the bright bead of blood away. “So it _was_ you after all.”

 

“Can’t say the same,” I retrieve my dagger, embarrassed. “You shouldn’t creep up on me like that if you value your neck.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says lightly, no doubt amused at my hypocrisy. He gestures around at the emptied restaurant. “I presume this is all your handiwork?”

 

“Yeah,” I stride past him, scooping up my bag as I make for the central bar.

 

“Impressive,” Ignis muses. He reclines against the door frame, long arms folded. At ease, as if admiring some new dish or the fish of the day. I flush slightly and scowl at myself. “If I may ask, why?”

 

Instead of answering, I vault over the counter. No sign of the chef, save for a bundle of clothes and a shattered photo frame. Unfortunate, but unsurprising. Under the light of my lapel torch, I squint at the dusty shelves. _Jackpot_.

 

“Why else?” I smirk, clinking together two crystalline bottles of Doman Black.

 

Ignis chuckles in surprise. I hadn’t heard him approach the counter. “I didn’t think you were the type to do anything for a stiff drink.”

 

“Nah, my girlfriend is the – was th-” I cut myself off, elation draining in an instant. With a sour face, I pack my trophies into the bag I had prepared. “Anyway, I’m trading these in. You’d be surprised how far a bottle of Doman Black goes these days.”

 

Easier to come by than meteorshards too, if you knew where to look and were willing to brave the daemons. And just as essential for survival, depending on who you ask. And I know exactly who to ask.

 

Ignis leans against the bar, listening to me skip my sticky fingers along the Pearl’s prized collection. Drawing on wisdom passed down from my ex-girlfriend and alcoholic aunties, I pluck bottles and flasks here and there. A discordant tinkling fills the restaurant, like a particularly profitable windchime.

 

“Anything you like?” I hum, peering up at him. “It’s on me. As thanks for last time.”

 

“How gracious of you,” Ignis settles himself on a barstool, drumming his gloved fingers on the counter. His easy demeanor tonight lacks the wary veneer of our last encounter, though his tone is just as even. It probably helps that he’s the one who snuck up on me this time.

 

“What can I say? I’m feeling generous tonight.” If my impromptu customer were anyone else, I might have winked.

 

“Then I’ll gladly accept,” he smirks, gaze alight with mischief and warmth. “What would the lady recommend?”

 

I raised an eyebrow. Being misgendered is just another part of life, but it usually goes the other way. I suppose he only has my voice to work with. How refreshing.

 

“Well, my good sir,” I announce with a flourish. His smile widens. “Here at the Pearl, we offer only the finest beverages for your enjoyment. May I present tonight’s range: Mamook Bitters, Randall’s Root Beer, Banora White...hold on, it’s faded...Elonny? Eb-”

 

“Ebony?!”

 

Ignis’s high cry rings through the empty restaurant. I stare in astonishment. The man is on his feet, leaning forward with parted lips, jaw slack. So much for play-acting. I suppress a giggle at his child-like reaction.

 

“Oh yes, that could definitely be a ‘b’,” I continue smoothly, keeping an eye on his hungry expression. Or thirsty, rather. “So, one dusty can of Ebony for the gentleman?”

 

“Thank you. I had not hoped to find more of this,” Ignis clears his throat, but reaches out just a little too fast. I can’t help but laugh. To think all it takes to unravel that composure of his is an unassuming black can...

 

“Alright!” I beam, dropping the act. With a clink, I pry the cap off an engraved bottle with a nearby spoon. Some kind of cider – Angie ordered it for me when we were here, a lifetime ago. Decent, but not coveted or potent enough to haul back. I lean over, propping an elbow on the counter, a twinkle in my eye.

 

“Here’s to you tactician. Cheers!”

 

I drain half the bottle. Hunters may be drink fiends, but ex-Hunters can hold their own too. Ignis raises his can with a smile, but instead of popping it, he carefully tucks it away into the pouch at his thigh.

 

“You’re not drinking?” I prod, swirling my drink idly. “We’re at the Pearl, you can’t get any more romantic than this.”

 

‘This’ being a trashed, lifeless bar, its former incandescence and lively buzz replaced by two glaring flashlights and the wind’s high keen...and the two of us, caked in grime and blood. Well, I am, anyway. At least Ignis meets the dress code. He snorts at my comment.

 

“I’ve...been rationing them,” he mutters. The tops of his ears are turning pink. How charming.

 

“Spoken like a true caffeine addict,” I laugh and tip the rest of my drink down my throat. With a satisfied sigh, I swing my bag onto my shoulders. “Alright Mr…”

 

“Scientia,” he offers with a tiny mock bow.

 

I giggle. “Okay Mr. Scientia, what’s say we get out of here before the goblins come back?”

 

* * *

 

Mission success (and the cider) buoys my spirits up for the first time in weeks. I bounce along the empty walkway, humming, Ignis following half a step behind. A friendly face isn’t easy to come by out here, stranger though he may be…though perhaps he’s disqualified from that, now that he’s told me his surname. I shrug and readjust my pack. Only upon reaching the souvenir stall do I notice the Giants’ conspicuous absence.

 

I whistle. “Not bad, tactician.”

 

Ignis shakes his head. “I had the advantage of surprise.”

 

“A man after my own heart,” I grin. The corners of his lips twitch in response. “Anyway, my ride’s up ahead. Want a lift to Hammerhead?”

 

“If you’re offering,” he answers smoothly. I chuckle at his familiar words.

 

A gust of wind muffles our footsteps. Across the sand, a single flan slithers away. The lone survivor; even the one circling the parking lot earlier is nowhere to be seen. I glance back at Ignis. Not a scratch on him, nor a hair out of place. For the sake of my pride, I’m glad I didn’t take him on all those weeks ago. As I wander over to the derelict fuel station, some of my merriment fades and curiosity kicks in. “What were you doing out here anyway? No backup, no ride?”

 

Ignis slows. A surprisingly heavy sigh escapes him. “I...needed space to think.”

 

I raise my eyebrows. The man is more pensive than he looks. “You couldn’t do that somewhere, I dunno, safer?”

 

“I assure you the local wildlife pose little danger to me.”

 

“If you say so,” I shrug. Maybe he’s just better at multitasking than I am. “So, what, were you planning to walk all the way back?”

 

“I would have called a Hunter in the area,” he says lightly.

 

Of course he has backup plans. I’m just a lucky coincidence that worked out. Feeling a little miffed, I jangle my keys. “Looks like you’re stuck with me instead.”

 

He just nods. “You have my thanks.”

 

Not expecting him to parry sarcasm with such sincerity, I fumble as I stow my bag. Fishing a pair of driving goggles from the topbox, I hesitate. Driving helmetless hasn’t bothered me but after his mother-henning at the lake, I’m approximately eighty percent sure he won’t like it.

 

“Don’t thank me yet,” I admit, avoiding his eyes. Not that I can see them, and not that it matters anyway. “I, uh, lost the helmets a while back.”

 

“I can’t say I enjoy courting death.” He folds his arms. “Come to think of it, weren’t you drinking earlier?”

 

“It’s just a bit of cider, I’m a great driver!” I protest, hopping on. When he still doesn’t move, I huff. “Need a hand?”

 

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” he replies mildly. “Just resigning myself to my fate.”

 

I roll my eyes. Ignis’s hand flutters over the seat for a moment before he swings himself up behind me. With the barest hesitation, he loops his arms around my waist, gentle but secure. Thankful for the relative bulk of my vest between us, I coax my bike to life.

 

“Hold on tight!”

 

It doesn’t take long before we leave the dilapidated quay behind. Out here in the open, grassy plains and multicoloured bombs whisk by. I swerve sharply to avoid the grasping claws of a demon wall. Ignis wisely keeps any snide comments to himself. _Ah, tunnels are the worst._ Once we’re free of the second, I call over my shoulder. “You good?”

 

“Still alive, if that counts,” he shouts back. Halfway through another eye-roll, a devilish grin alights on my lips. With a cocky rev, the old girl leaps forward. The sudden tightening of Ignis’s grip on my waist widens my smile...until he gives my thigh a disgruntled tap and I can’t quite manage to suppress a twitch. I grimace – there’s no way he missed that, but I’m not turning around to find out, lest his smug expression tempts me to drop him here and now.

 

Maintaining this new speed, I settle into the familiar calm of driving. The wind feels great, and the goggle straps keep most of my short hair contained, unruly bangs aside. Still a tinge of salt to it – and the occasional daemonic cry, near and far. Mostly goblins and bombs, but every now and then I glimpse stronger foes – something naga-like, large and serpentine, even a Ronin stalking about an abandoned storefront. A few make to lunge at us, but the bike’s upgraded headlights keep them away.

 

Ignis shifts against me. I feel, rather than hear, him sigh into my back, just below the lash of the wind. Then, a warm pressure between my shoulder blades. Hair, tickling the nape of my neck. I keep my gaze on the road. Whatever words he lets slip are between him and the wind.

 

 _Space to think, huh?_ What would I know of the chains of command? Crownsguard or not, he’s only human. And what I do know is that this ruined world is much less kind than he is. I run my thumb along the handlebar grooves. We all carry something, us survivors. He can keep his secrets – and this moment, if he needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting this is the equivalent of submitting an essay i know will make the marker despair, but i'm sick of editing this so here.


	3. Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon their return to Hammerhead, the strategist’s faith in his king takes the ex-Hunter by surprise.

A metallic screech welcomes us as the sentries open the gate. The gaudy Hammerhead sign towers above them, corner light flickering. As we coast through, a young Hunter nods at us, then readjusts his grip on his assault rifle.

 

“My thanks for the lift,” Ignis murmurs, barely audible above the purr of the engine. 

 

I smirk, wheeling us past the gas station. “And here I was thinking you were regretting it the whole way.”

 

He chuckles. “Not the  _ whole  _ way. Believe me, I’ve had worse.”

 

At the lilt in his voice, I quirk an eyebrow. At least he’s feeling well enough to joke around again. Before I can open my mouth, an inhuman shriek answers somewhere to the north. The guard who greeted us whips his head back and forth. I exhale slowly. “Hammerhead won’t stay safe for long.”

 

My voice is low but Ignis catches my words – and their weight. 

 

“Yes. We must hold out until Noct returns.”

 

“The king?” I scoff, pulling over next to the garage. Sure, I know the tales. But you can’t feed refugees with a prophecy. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

 

Ignis’s voice is quiet but resolute. “Noct will return. And he will bring the light back to this world.”

 

My facade falters. For a moment, I want him to convince me – that this living nightmare will pass, that I can finally feel the sun on my skin again, the sea breeze in my hair – we’ve all been trying so hard, for so long…

 

I switch my bike off, swallowing thickly, but make no move to dismount. Spite sharpens my words. “Is he even alive? I bet the Niffs shot him in the-”

 

“No,” Ignis cuts me off, voice slightly raised in something other than anger. “He is well. The Crystal is keeping him safe until it is time.”

 

Something sparks hot in my stomach. Ripping my goggles off, I turn to him with a sneer. “How? How can you know?”

 

“I trust him.”

 

The glare of the floodlight sets harsh shadows around his eyes and jaw. Beneath his visor, his one open eye holds no doubt in its moonlike sheen. I turn back to the handlebars, disgruntled. Then I realise his hands, still clasped below my ribs, are trembling.

 

My hostility ebbs away. To live in unquestioning faith is easy. But the man I met is far too clever for that. I begin to regret lashing out. To cut the silence stretching between us, I lay a soft hand on his, tarrying a moment before gently moving his hands from my waist. Ignis twitches, then retreats quickly. I hop off, feeling several pairs of eyes on us. Thank gods we’ve kept our voices relatively low.

 

Ignis dismounts unsteadily. Either he is less composed than I thought or my driving really was that bad. I stifle a nervous giggle, but Ignis straightens and clears his throat.

 

“If you’d like proof…” With a flash, a dagger appears in his hand. He balances the flat of the blade on one finger.

 

I chew my lip. Every Lucian knows magic is connected to the royal bloodline. He could have opened with this...but though I’m moved by his earlier declaration, I cannot share his faith. “But-”

 

“Sir.” A grizzled Hunter hurries over.

 

“Ah, Royce. Are the reports on the Tomb of the Rogue in yet?”

 

“Not yet, but there’s something you should look at…”

 

This Ignis is all business. I watch them disappear into the diner, my half-formed snipe vanishing into the night. With a sigh, I flick my contact a text – if he hasn’t already noticed my arrival. Arms crossed, I settle against the garage wall. A truck trundles in through the gates, loaded with crates and animal horns. My foot starts tapping by itself, though not out of impatience. This place, with its high wire fences and searing floodlights, is suffocating. The yellow glow spilling out from the diner would feel warm but for the boxes of weapons and daemon-tracking machinery lining the windows.

 

Another sigh escapes my lips and I close my eyes. Bitterness roils in my gut, but I’m glad the Hunter intervened when he did; Ignis doesn’t deserve to put up with my spite. He’s not stupid – I can’t accuse him or his king of anything he doesn’t already know. Still...I owe him an apology _. _ Regardless of whether their king will return or not, we’re all doing our best to live. Crownsguard and Hunter alike.  _ Once upon a time, I too... _

 

I shake my head. What did Ignis say?  _ Space to think _ ...I’ve had plenty of that, but it looks like I still can’t sit still in a place like this. I grind my nails into the concrete wall at my back. Even if the sun returns, we’ve – I’ve – already lost so much…

 

Just as I begin to sink into unsavoury thoughts, a familiar scarred face approaches. 

 

“Zee!” Owen’s bark earns him a disdainful glance from the weapon’s merchant, but the burly Hunter pays him no heed. Smirking, I swing the padded backpack from its bike rack. At the distinct sloshing sound, he grins.

 

“Got your vice right here Owen,” I say, swirling the Doman Black with a wink.

 

“Y’know, ya didn’t really need to,” he says, scratching his beard. “Keeping people safe is my duty, and ya still people, last time I checked.”

 

I push the bottles towards him with a wry look. “And have you hold this over my head until you retire? No thanks.”

 

“Heh, thought not,” he grins, clutching the bottles to his wide chest like a newborn. I snort at his antics. “Hey, I ain’t complainin’!”

 

“The only one complaining will be your liver,” I retort, bending down and taking my time zipping up the bag. His thirsty gaze tracks my every movement.

 

“What else ya got there?” he cranes his neck for a look but I play coy. Now that my debt is paid, I can milk my loot for all it’s worth.

 

“The Glacian Gold’s bound for Lestallum,” I inform him. It’s no lie – there’s a buyer I have in mind, though she doesn’t know it yet. Scavenging for a side gig requires a working knowledge of each outpost’s resident alcoholics. “Anything else depends on what you’re offering.”

 

“Oh now ya talking. Well, come ‘round and take a look at what we got.”

 

I leave tonight’s bartering session with a new whetstone, medical supplies, and a full tank of fuel. Not bad for a few cans of root beer and a bottle of elderflower liqueur. Owen follows me to my bike.

 

“So, what’re ya doin’ with the Crownsguard?” His eyes glitter. I swat him away – he’s too old for idolizing, and I tell him so.

 

“Aww, come on. Meldacio’ve been scramblin’ tryin’a find those last few tombs. Bout time they got outside help,” he drawls, arms crossed. “Oh, sorry.”

 

I wave his apology away. “Nah, nothing like that. Just met by coincidence and offered a ride, is all.”

 

“Hmm,” is all Owen says. Under his curious gaze, I finish packing my new gear into the various storage compartments of my bike. “Anything ya wanna leave with me?”

 

“I’m good,” I grunt, using my own body weight to push the topbox shut. Satisfied, I dust myself off and step back. However, the big Hunter’s attention is elsewhere. I follow his gaze – and gape. Striding towards us, quiff still slightly windswept, is the strategist himself.

 

“Could you spare us a moment?”

 

Owen salutes lazily, shooting me a mischievous look I try my best to ignore. “Sure. See ya ‘round Zee!”

 

Ignis turns to me with an inquiring look. “You’re leaving?” 

 

“Yeah,” I shrug, leaning against my bike. “I’ve finished my business here.”

 

“Won’t you join us for a meal first?”

 

Taken aback, I chew my lip. ‘Us’ likely meant the other Hunters. I mumble something I hope sounds halfway polite.

 

“Then, allow me to prepare something for you next time,” Ignis says with a small smile.

 

“Wait, you’re cooking?” I stare at him but his expression and voice are earnest.

 

“Yes, it’s a hobby of mine.”

 

“Like the fishing?” I ask with a growing sense of dread. 

 

Ignis laughs, adjusting his glasses. “Not quite. I wouldn’t dare compare the two.”

 

“Hmm,” I tilt my head. It’s been a while since I had a decent meal that wasn’t grilled or roasted meat and a handful of wild vegetables. “Next time maybe.”

 

“Fair enough.” He turns to leave, but seems to reconsider. “Another thing...might I trouble you for your contact details?”

 

“Uh. Sure?”

 

“If you haven’t already heard, Meldacio are kindly aiding our search for the Royal Arms,” he continues, unfazed by my lack of enthusiasm. “Hunter or no, your skills would make a valuable addition to our efforts. Of course, you will be compensated for your time.”

 

A business proposal then. And not an unattractive one, though I can’t say I relish the idea of working with the Crownsguard any more than working with Hunters.

 

“I’ll have to think about it,” I say slowly. Ignis nods in response. 

 

“Glad to hear it,” he says. I rattle off a number from the dusty depths of my memory and he repeats it perfectly.

 

“Well, I won’t keep you,” he says, ever the gentleman. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

“Y-yeah. See you around.”

 

I wheel the bike around in an arc before cruising through the opened gate. As I leave the lights of the slayer station behind, I become aware of a gnawing feeling in my stomach I can’t quite place. Hoping it’s simply hunger, I ride on into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seasons greasons.  
> again, sick of editing. enjoy?


	4. A Summer Shower

I push a palm frond out of my face. The edges are curled and yellow; it seems the local flora are just as sun-starved as the rest of us. Stumbling past a ruined pillar, I squint through the grey drizzle. Typical Vesperpool weather. Torchlight blares through the swap, and something metallic glints back.

 

 _Well hello there_.

 

An abandoned car lolls in the muck, front wheels missing. I squelch closer. A gaping front grill and wide taillights – that’s a Thunderbird alright. Possibly an S-Type. Either way, Cindy’s intel is good as her figure. Its silver linings are dull and rust spreads down its once-scarlet sides like mold. Looks like it’s been here since the beginning of the Long Night. Skirting around it, I can feel glass shards beneath my boots, but instead of cracking they simply sink deeper into the mud. Rain patters against its buckled roof. In the driver’s hasty escape, they’d left the trunk yawning open. A few cans and a broken umbrella – nothing of value to me. An old coat trails along the ground, fuzzy with moss. Clicking my tongue, I circle around to shine my torch through the glassless windows. A silver tub glints back from underneath the seat. I lean closer and squint at the water-wrinkled label. ‘Crown Auto Fiberglass Coating.’ _Score_.

 

I test the handle. Jammed. Of course it is. I draw my knife and tap the flat of the blade against the windowsill. Sounds like the only glass left here is languishing in the mud. With a grunt, I haul my upper body through the window, feeling around for the handle. The moment my fingers close around wire and rotting wood, I realise what I had taken to be heavier rain is actually a set of patter-squelching footsteps – and they’re closing in, fast.

 

I twist around just in time to catch a whirlwind of feathers and claws launch itself at my legs. Cursing, I lash out. My boot connects with something solid and warm and the creature whirls away, shrieking. A cockatrice? No, the colours are all wrong, and this thing is much bigger than any cockatrice has a right to be. A royalisk? _Shit_ . I struggle to free my shoulder but my vest is hooked on something – a gleam of metal pokes through the leather. I fumble and tug but it’s no use. From the corner of my eye, the shadow readies a second charge. _Shit-shit-shit-_

 

 _Thunk._ The royalisk rears with a screech, a dagger buried above its wing. As it wheels around to face its new foe, I finally free myself from the window frame. With a whirling kick, I hammer the dagger deeper into its shoulder.

 

“SCREEEEEE!”

 

“Shit!” I recoil, clamping my hands over my ears. Behind me, a pained cry from my saviour. Panting, I stagger out of range. In the midst of its aimless thrashing, the dagger in its shoulder vanishes with a familiar flash.

 

“Are you alright?” The weapon materialises in Ignis’s hand in a shower of sparks.

 

I gape at him for few seconds. One hand cradles his temple and his breathing is ragged... _but hell if he isn’t a welcome sight_. An incredulous laugh escapes me. “I owe you one.”

 

Ignis startles at the sound of my voice. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re still counting?”

 

The royalisk tosses its head at us, its beady eyes positively venomous. Ignis curls his fingers around his cane and dagger. “Here it comes!”

 

“Right!”

 

Scattering to avoid its claws, we keep the beast’s attention split between us, driving it further into a frenzy. Its attacks become more and more careless, until a swipe aimed at Ignis arcs wide. The moment it does, I hack into the creature’s thick wing muscles. It stumbles back, shrieking – then Ignis drives his spear into its breast. One final flurry of feathers, and the royalisk slumps into the mud.

 

“Nice moves.”

 

Ignis adjusts his glasses. ”We work well together.”

 

“Heh.” I push my sodden fringe out of my face, wincing when mud stings my eye. Wiping blood off my daggers, I splash over to the abandoned car and peer into the back window. The fiberglass coating lies on its side under the middle seat.

 

Head tilted, Ignis squelches after me. “Something you’re after?”

 

I reach through the window again, careful to avoid the curled metal spike that almost got me killed. Rooting around, with my tongue between my teeth, I manage a muffled ‘uh huh’.

 

“Need a hand?” Ignis asks with a tinge of amusement.

 

“Nuh uh.” I stretch my arm out, balancing on my tiptoes, ass in the air. At least he’s spared the sight, and I, some dignity. Finally, I manage to hook a finger under the handle. While Ignis regards me curiously, I topple backwards and beam. “There. Fiberglass coating, just what the mechanic ordered.”

 

“Oh? I half-expected another bottle of wine.”

 

I roll my eyes and rattle the can at him. “That was whisky, and a favour. This is a job.”

 

“From one Miss Aurum?”

 

“Only the best,” I reply. Now that I look closely, Ignis is travelling light, with only a pouch on his thigh for essentials. “What about you? Fishing again?”

 

“Would that I had the luxury,” Ignis shakes his head. Before I can ask further, the light drizzle turns torrential. The chill is immediate, the noise thunderous. I swear under my breath, squinting at Ignis’s now-blurry form. One arm raised above his head, he grimaces. “Let’s get out of this rain first.”

 

“Shelter, shelter...the old tackle store?”

 

“As good as any.”

 

Ducking my head, I jog towards the pier, head bowed. The staccato rattling of rain against the fiberglass container joins the general din.  Ignis follows, though not as closely as I thought he would. When I look over my shoulder, his movements are unsteady, and he grips his cane tightly. I frown. Did he get injured in our little skirmish?

 

“You alright?”

 

He lifts his head, frowning in concentration. “I’m fine. Just...getting my bearings.”

 

 _Ah, the rain_. What is mildly irritating to me must be cacophonous to him. I slow my pace. “Alright, just follow me.”

 

With that, I lead us back to the dirt – mud, now – path. It’s a slightly longer route, but we’re already so soaked it won’t make much difference. If Ignis notices our detour, he doesn’t show it. Rain needles into my exposed neck. Soon, the shack looms into view. The planks of the pier are black and slippery, but there is a dry patch beneath the awning.

 

“Here, careful.”

 

Sidestepping a crumpled pile of tarp, I nudge a fallen bucket aside with my boot. Ignis retreats beneath the shelter, one hand held out to feel the air. Rain drums against the roof. As he glances upwards, rivlets of water glide down his neck and over his collarbone, silver in the torchlight. A bead slides into the hollow of his throat and – I shake myself out of my daze. For his part, Ignis sweeps his bedraggled hair from his face with an expression so disgruntled I have to stifle a snort. Instead, I wring water out of my shirt, thankful to my vest for keeping some of it away. Ignis is worse off. His dress shirt clings to his shoulders, the white stripes quickly turning translucent. Chewing my lip, I glance behind us at the ruined store. Any scraps of fabric in there, let alone towels, would have long succumbed to mold and rot. I set the can on top of a barrel with a sigh. _Looks like we’ll be stuck here a while_.

 

“So, what _were_ you up to?”

 

Ignis blinks at me, halfway through fixing his hair and glasses. “Studying the ruins of course.”

 

“Huh,” I lean back against the planks. “Didn’t know Crownsguard moonlight in archaeology.”

 

Ignis settles next to me with the ghost of a smile. “We don’t. This is more of a...personal project.”

 

“You working solo?”

 

“The others have their own assignments,” he admits. A small grimace curls his lips and he turns away. “And it makes for a good test of my capabilities, in my...current state.”

 

“Hmm.” I fold my arms. I can admire a man who strives against his limits. Peering at his profile, the dark smudge over his eye is stark against his skin. Word spreads easily amongst survivors, but the rumours didn’t mention the cause. “How’d it happen? If you don’t mind talking about it.”

 

Ignis pauses. With anyone else, I might avert my eyes to give them space, but something about this man makes me unable to look away.

 

“It was...the only way to fulfil a promise,” Ignis says eventually. His gaze floats out past the lake, over the mangroves and out into the blackened sky. Into the past. “Anything, to protect him.”

 

“...who?”

 

Ignis just smiles. A complicated expression not without pain, but unclouded with second thoughts.

 

I clear my throat. “No regrets, huh? That’s what matters.”

 

His lips twist wryly. I bite the inside of my cheek. _Way to sound full of it_. A raindrop slides down the bridge of his nose but he remains motionless. Lost in his memories, perhaps. It falls to the planks noiselessly. I breathe in the smells of rotting wood, the swamp, the rain – and breathe out again. Now would be a good time to apologise for last time. From what I know of him, a total shutdown is unlikely, yet...

 

Before I can collect my thoughts however, Ignis says conversationally, “You know, the Solheimians took water to symbolise death.”

 

I quirk an eyebrow at the sudden history lesson. “Did they? That what the creepy floating pool is for?”

 

A tiny chuckle escapes him. “Who knows?” Then he sighs. “I thought I might find answers here, but…”

 

“Did you?”

 

“Less than I would like. It seems the ancients do not readily relinquish their secrets.”

 

I shoot a thoughtful glance in the ruins’ direction. I’d walked the crumbling passages before, seen broken stone reform before my very eyes – but dismissed it as more old magic, too strange to approach. What would a Crownsguard hope to learn from people who lived thousands of years ago?

 

Ignis crosses his arms. “Regardless, I did find something today, even if it’s not what I was searching for.”

 

“Huh? What’s that?”

 

Ignis just smiles again, but this time it’s far less solemn and a touch more infuriating. As I replay his words in my head, something in my gut flutters, but then a terrible itch in my nose takes over.  “ _Achoo_!”

 

Ignis lifts a hand to his mouth, hiding a grin. “It seems all you’ve found is a cold.”

 

“Hey, it was one sneeze! And I found this too,” I rap the can beside me, sniffling. Ignis chuckles. I make a face at him, which is pointless as usual. “Well, you know what they say about the Vesperpool. When it rains...”

 

“...it pours for a week.” He sighs.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Fat droplets gloop down from the awning, each individual plip-plop indistinguishable from the general hiss-roar around us. The lake seethes. Somewhere in its cold depths are the ruins of Steyliff Grove. I glance at Ignis but his expression is peaceful, despite his drenched clothes. Briefly, I ponder whether to make a dash for the campground. Though the rain has lightened up, it’s still going steady, and probably will for the next few hours at least. Still, as the minutes tick by, I find myself minding our situation less and less. Ignis, in particular, seems chattier than usual. And who catches a cold in summer?

 

“We ran out of fuel here once,” Ignis speaks up suddenly. “Right at nightfall, before the worst rainstorm in a decade.”

 

“Oh? Couldn’t get towed out?”

 

He shakes his head, laughter on his lips. “All comms were down for two days straight. So there we were, the four of us stuck in a leaking tent, warming our hands around our remaining stock of cup noodles.”

 

“Even the king?”

 

“Especially the king,” he raises an eyebrow. “Though I doubt he recalls much, given he slept his way through most of the storm.”

 

I can’t help but giggle. “I can’t imagine that.”

 

“We have photographic evidence,” Ignis drawls, but his expression is full of warmth. The way Ignis talks about him swings between reverence and affectionate ribbing, like any other young adult boy. It’s fascinating, and endlessly amusing. _I wonder – does he only show this expression when talking about his king?_

 

“Honestly,” I begin, leaning on my hands. “Back home, I never paid much attention to the royal family.”

  
“You’re Insomnian?”

 

“Yeah, not native though. Caught a bit of grief in school for it, you know how kids are. Until the prince came into the picture. That stopped the eye-pulling for good.”

 

“They wouldn’t dream of bothering royalty,” Ignis smirks.

 

“Yeah they changed their tune real quick,” I chuckle. In the companionable silence that follows, I take a deep breath, clenching my fists against my lower back.

 

“Look, I’m sorry for going off at you before. About the king, I…” Chewing my lip, I drop my gaze. Ignis steps away from the wall, turning to face me. Another breath, deeper than the last. “I-I guess I’m just bitter. But I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you.”

 

Ignis considers me for a moment. Under his undivided attention, I resist the urge to squirm. But when he does speak, his voice is soft. “No harm done. Though...I do hope you’ll come to change your mind.”

 

I slouch back and shoot him a wry grin. “You’ll be waiting a long time then.”

 

“I’m a patient man,” he replies mildly. I shake my head, but my grin widens. Around us, the downpour lessens slightly – a good chance as any. I spring away from the wall, refreshed.

 

“Well I’m not,” I chirp, hooking a finger under the handle of my trophy. “So, I’m gonna make a run for it. Care to join me?”

 

“Why not,” he grins, then frowns. “I, ah, apologise in advance for slowing you down...”

 

“Don’t worry about that. Just follow me.”

 

With that, I duck out of our shelter, jogging up the hill. Ignis follows the jangling of the fiberglass can, a step behind me, our boots churning the muddy path in unison. I keep an eye on him as we go, but he moves with more confidence this time, despite not using his cane. When we reach the stone archway, I stop to shake the water out of my eyes. Ignis looks up at the rain’s sudden absence. He goes to fix his glasses, then decides to remove them altogether. With his fringe is plastered to his forehead, he looks like a teenager. I snort.

 

“Something I said?”

 

“Nah it’s just…” I giggle. “Your hair.”

 

“Ah,” Ignis makes a disgruntled noise and runs his fingers through it. My mouth falls open. _Not a bad view_. “Yes, it’s unfortunate.”

 

His frown deepens as I keep smirking. I peer up at him, hands on my thighs. “What can I say? You look like a younger man.”

 

“I’m not that old to begin with,” he retorts. “I’m only twenty three.”

 

“Wait, seriously?” eyes wide, I lean closer, studying his face. “My age?”

 

Ignis shrinks back, flushing. He coughs into his glove.

 

“My bad, my bad,” I retreat out of his personal bubble, still highly amused. “Could’ve sworn you were older. Anyone would think that, looking at us. Well...me.”

 

“Would they?” Ignis straightens his collar. “Your voice sounds mature enough to me. And quite lovely.”

 

I roll my eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

 

“I was hoping the truth might get me back to Lestallum, actually,” he admits with the tiniest grin.

 

I snort. “Yeah, yeah. C’mon, we’re almost there.”

 

With a tap on the shoulder, I beckon him onwards. In the back of my mind, I wonder if he planned to call a nearby Hunter again. This time, I find myself less bothered at being the convenient coincidence. But maybe that’s just the summer rain talking. Though it does not relent, neither does it worsen. We reach the campground in no time. I march over to my motorbike and peel the rain cover off. Popping the topbox, I rummage around for a bit, shielding its contents with my torso.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ve acquired any headgear since our last trip?” Ignis lets out a sigh as melodramatic as it is understated.

 

“‘fraid not. You’re gonna have to live life on the edge again, Scientia.” Grinning wickedly, I stuff a plastic rain poncho into his hands instead. “Here, put this on.”

 

“I suppose it’s better late than never...and yourself?”

 

I shrug. “It’s a short ride, I’ll be fine.”

 

“I seem to recall I _wasn’t_ the one sneezing earlier.”

 

“It was just the one! And you don’t sound so hot yourself,” I counter. He’d done a good job at hiding it, but if those weren’t shivers, then I’m Lucian royalty. “The wind’ll make it worse.”

 

“All the more reason for the driver to wear it.”

 

I open my mouth, but I’ve got nothing. The absurdity of our little argument hits me then and I burst into another fit of giggles. Ignis cracks a smile too, while pushing the raincoat back into my arms. “Alright, you win! Now let’s go already.”

 

“My thoughts exactly.”

 

* * *

As expected, asking the raincoat to do anything more than buffer the wind was too much. The hood couldn’t even stay on, but my driving goggles kept my vision more or less clear. Not like there were many other drivers on the road to watch out for – just daemons, and they were all driven back by the bike’s searing headlights.

 

Back in Lestallum, the streets are mostly deserted. A few gutters are overflowing. For once, the clouds over the Vesperpool had spread to the city. The only living beings in the darkness are a few grim-faced Hunters and Glaives going to and from their jobs. A blonde boy shoots us a curious glance, but we speed away before I have time to recognise his face.

 

“Where’s your place?”

 

“Ah, it’s out by the old market. Take a left by the fountain, and...”

 

Ignis leads us through the winding alleys. I keep my speed down, torn between wanting to dry off and wanting to avoid any accidents. Eventually we arrive at the right apartment block. I resist a shiver. My ass is practically glued to the bike seat, not that I can feel anything anymore. I barely even register Ignis’s arms unwinding from my waist as he hops down.

 

“Won’t you come in? The sooner you dry off the better.”

 

Startled, I decline automatically. “Nah, I’m good. My place is just by the armour shop.”

 

Ignis frowns. “That’s halfway across town.”

 

“It’s not a very big town,” I shrug, repressing a shiver. Tempting as his offer is, I can hardly backpedal now. Ignis’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t press the matter. “I’ll be alright, I’ll see you ‘round.”

 

“Thanks again for the ride,” Ignis nods reluctantly.

 

“Don’t make it a habit,” I grin and wheel away. When I turn the corner, I swear I hear a faint sneeze, but it may be my imagination. Doubling down on my own itching nose, I make my slow way home. The moment I park my bike, a flurry of sneezing doubles me over, almost knocking my forehead on the handlebars. I take a giant sniff and wrinkle my nose. _Ugh. Gross_.

 

I unstick myself from my bike, groaning at the stiffness that has set in over the long ride. Another shiver trills through me, head to toe. Despite longing for a warm shower, I take my time checking and locking up my bike. Cold begins to set in and my fine motor skills nosedive, dragging my task on. I stow the fiberglass coating under the cover and make a mental note to flick Cindy a text when my fingers aren’t frozen useless. Squelching out of the garage, I twist an arm under the raincoat, digging around in my vest pocket. _Keys, keys…_

 

 _There_. The front gate gives with a wet screech. I plod up the stairs – only to the second floor, thankfully. As I go to unlock the door, it swings inwards and I stumble.

 

“...tell him I said– _Shiva’s tits_ Zee, you look like a drowned chickatrice. The hell?” A towering man steadies me.

 

“Good to see you too.” I wriggle out of the raincoat and start shaking it out in the corridor.

 

“Stop that,” Wes snatches it up and scowls at me, one hand still clutching his phone. “Hang on, hey, I’ll call you back.” He looks me up and down, his scowl darkening, though not in anger. “Come in, but stay off the carpet. I’ll get you a towel.”

 

He disappears back inside in a whirlwind of plastic and gangly limbs. I suppress a giggle. He really is too baby-faced to look stern, but I know better than to point that out. I trudge in and close the door behind me. Our apartment isn’t big, but it’s manageable. A guitar lies abandoned on the threadbare couch. Its owner clatters around in the bathroom. I flick the lights on.

 

“You goin’ out?” I call.

 

“Yeah, on a date.”

 

“Ah. Say sorry to Connor for me.” I kick off my boots with some difficulty and scrape the vest from my torso, frowning at the smell of wet leather. As I search around for somewhere to hang it, Wes reemerges and whisks it out of my hands.

 

“He’s gonna be late anyway,” he shrugs, tossing a massive beach towel over me. I collapse against the wall, like an exhausted tropical parasol. “Plus, I’m pretty sure he still thinks I made you up. And now you look the part too.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing. Just that I have a ghost for a roommate.” He peels me off the wall and bundles me towards the bathroom. I protest half-heartedly but quickly give in. Wes has the advantage of both height and bulk – he carries me easily, humming along the way. He sets me down on a tiled floor: the bathroom?

 

“I’m not _that_ bad am I?” Wes whips the towel off my head. I squint at the bright lights – and his unimpressed expression. “Okay, but...I’m here now?”

 

“Yeah, the whole floor can see that.”

 

 _Oops_. I simply shrug and resign myself to Wes’s fussing. He turns the shower on. The hiss of water, so similar to and yet so removed from the Vesperpool’s current deluge, makes my eyelids droop. Wes raps me on the shoulder.

 

“Wash up first. And I think you need a new raincoat.” He gestures at the poncho dripping puddles under the towel rack. “This one’s doing shit all.”

 

“Ah, m’bad,” I yawn. “The raincoat’s fine, I just got a little held up.”

 

Wes raises his eyebrows. “Something good happen?”

 

“Mm?”

 

Wes pinches my cheek. “You’ve been smiling yourself silly, like a sad, drenched idiot...”

 

Scowling, I slap him away – then sneeze again.

 

“...with a cold.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> had this written half a year ago, but put off (thorough) editing until I gave up, so here it is  
> (yes the title is very much a mitski reference)


End file.
